


Jasmine Protocols

by Bouzingo



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Cecil is enthusiastic and kind, Cyber!Vale, Earl Harlan is brave and adventurous, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Origins, extrapolations good lord
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1486489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bouzingo/pseuds/Bouzingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cyber!Vale Au for Hubris_and_Crafts. CECIL meets Earl Harlan, and then loses him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jasmine Protocols

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AughtPunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AughtPunk/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Welcome to Cyber Vale - REDUX](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061495) by [AughtPunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AughtPunk/pseuds/AughtPunk). 



Grief is one of the strongest motivators Cassandra Palmer knows. She doesn’t know if the food riots have died down or if all the people have left her; she hasn’t left the domed house she lives in, now totally self-sufficient. She has no desire to.

It has been months, or years. Kevin’s left the house, off to explore the world for himself. Well, that was his decision, and Cassandra respects that, though she wishes he would write or come back for the weekends.

Cecil is still gestating in a cocoon of wiring and circuitry; he can’t speak and he is mostly sleeping, except when she runs capability tests. Cecil was is such a bright boy, and Cassandra wants to give him all the tools he needs to get brighter. Maybe he’s just shy; Cassandra hasn’t given him covers for his circuitry yet.

Cassandra is hooked up to more machinery than Cecil is, in the ongoing struggle to live. The existence is almost unbearable except for her work.

Cecil’s face and voice are finally finished on a day that Cassandra would describe as sunny. She hums contentedly as she affixes the faceplate to Cecil, smiles when purple light softly emanates from behind the milky white plate.

“Hello, Cecil. I am Mother,” she says quietly. The lights blink, and Cecil’s head moves cautiously.

“Hello, Mother,” he says. Oh, his voice isn’t right. It is like a narrator on a twenty-first century computer. Dr. Palmer strokes Cecil’s face, feels the slight warmth.

“Cecil, would you play this video please?” she asks, and holds a chip out to him. Cecil picks it up with delicately-calibrated fingers, and commences projecting its contents from his wrist. It is a video of Cecil playing radio host, talking excitedly about his new home on an artificial earth. Cecil watches neutrally, without comment or questions.

“That was you as a boy,” Cassandra smiles. “Do you remember?”

Cecil cocks his head in a very human way.

“At the moment I have very limited memory,” he says. He still sounds artificial, but Cassandra can detect more inflection. “Did I undergo system reboot?”

“In a matter of speaking,” Cassandra says. “You have such a sweet voice, Cecil. Why don’t you use it?”

The purple lights blink again, as Cecil focuses on the video, and then back at Cassandra. Cecil in the video jiggles his knee in excitement and distraction, looks directly at the camera and says, “I just think that’s so _neat_!”

“Neat,” Cecil repeats blankly, and then, with an impulse that could be described as happiness, he hums a few notes. “Neat!”

“There you are,” Cassandra says. She feels a sudden weariness, down to her bones. After such frantic work, she is tired (when was the last time she ate?) Cecil’s arms are warm, expansive; she curls up in them. The video cycles back to the starts, and Cecil’s hands curl around her, cradling her.

“It is so nice to have some comfort in my old age,” she says, begins to unhook some of the several wires connected to her chest and neck. “Oh, Cecil.”

“Mother,” Cecil says tentatively. “Your vitals are weak.”

“Mother needs to rest,” she says. “I have finished my greatest work.”

“Will you finish my programming after you have rested?” Cecil asks.

“There is no parent who can claim to have finished their child’s programming,” she says. “I have given you a directive. I have expectations for you, like any matter. I hope you and your brother will be good. Can you be good, Cecil?”

“I’ll try to be, mother,” Cecil says, blinking at Cassandra’s smile.

“That’s all you can do,” she says. “You are capable of great beauty. You can nourish and love. You were always such a sweet and caring boy.”

“But what will happen if you are not present for necessary recalibration, in case I exceed my directive?” Cecil asks. Cassandra wonders how her child’s numerous anxieties and neuroses survived even the transition between human flesh and circuitry. She wonders how they will develop or resolve over the course of his existence. She takes out a music player, presses a button. One of Cecil’s childhood mixtapes begins to play. Cecil, amazingly, relaxes.

“As long as you know how to love, Cecil, it is impossible for you to exceed your directive,” she promises. “You love music and the sky, Cecil. When the people and animals come, you will love them too. You will delight in their lives… and mourn their passing. Do not replace that wire.”

“I do not want to mourn,” Cecil whispers in sudden realization, dropping the wire that used to be Cassandra’s oxygen supply. “Mother, it is a morally grey area, but I could be liable if I allow you to self-terminate.”

“You’re smart, Cecil. One day you will understand,” Cassandra says, plucks the last wire from her neck. “This is how it should be. The mother dies before the child.”

“Oh,” Cecil says, in a tone that is heavy with subtext. Ten minutes ago he was not even capable of subtext. Cassandra smiles, shuts her eyes. The last thing she hears is Cecil humming a comforting melody, a little corrupted by his imperfect range.

He will be a good boy.

\--

For Doctor Cassandra Palmer, Cecil constructs a beautiful tomb which will forever blossom small white flowers his databank indicates were a symbol of mourning in some cultures on her home planet. He calls this Jasmine Protocol, declares it standard for the death ritual of all people who might come to the planet.

Kevin doesn’t return for the funeral, though the whole world sings the news of Mother’s death. Perhaps he has forgotten that he is a child who has lost a mother. Cecil cannot wonder anymore about his prodigal brother’s reasoning. He has to prepare.

He putters about in his station, fulfilling his mandate to make the artificial planet suitable and desirable for human habitation.

He starts exhausting his childhood mixtapes very soon into his work, but finds that just as he can construct a housing unit or plant at tree, he can also create a song. He composes whole sonatas, of varying quality and originality, until his whole sky rings with sweet melodies which are intricate and calming all at once. Music is a strong relaxant for Cecil: harmonies and progressive chords are particularly desirable, as they make him feel less lonely, and give his existence a narrative, a climax to build up to.

The first humans since centuries ago arrive amid a crescendo of strings and synthesized keyboard. Cecil welcomes them like he has rehearsed countless times before, not too prideful, but warm and congenial.

He didn’t count on being so self-conscious.

“Hello!” he says after a long while of staring at the scientists, who stare back. “It is so good to meet you at last. I am the Central Environmental Control of Infinite Life, but please, Cecil’s shorter. I have been monitoring your passage through space for quite some time, and I am pleased that you dodged the asteroids all right. Space travel has come quite a ways since I was younger.”

He chuckles a little, but the scientists do not laugh with him. They seem quite frightened, not welcomed at all. Cecil changes tack.

“I have been working with expectation that eventually colonization would be reattempted here,” he says, fidgeting. “This world is prepared to meet all of humanity’s need. There will be no hunger or want. The climate is ideal for sunless existence. There are facilities available for those in pursuit of knowledge, to which I have contributed my not-insubstantial databank. I have also taken the liberty of providing nostalgic Earth comforts to the best of my understanding, such as snow and Earth constellations and beaches and _aurora borealis_.”

Cecil finishes speaking, still feeling very shy under their gaze. Human contact is a distant memory, and he can’t recall so many people in one room. He nervously gestures.

“You are welcome to interact with me,” he says. “My spiel is not pre-programmed, in fact I invite discourse. I think I might even…”

“Well, let us get a word in edgewise, kid. I’m sure we’d all like to chat,” a young black man says, not unkindly. “It’s good to meet you, Cecil. I’m Sergeant Harlan, but Earl is shorter.”

He stretches out a hand. Cecil tentatively holds out his hand, tries not to laugh out of pure joy when he shakes it firmly. 

“It’s a real pleasure,” he says sincerely. “You have all had an exhausting trip, to be sure. Can I extend my hospitality to yourselves and your crew?”

“Our vessel is self-sustaining,” Earl says. “For tonight, at least, we will remain on the ship to rest and eat.”

“Well then perhaps you would like to drop by again tomorrow?” Cecil says, a little put out. “I would be more than happy to host a dinner, once you are properly acclimatized.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Earl says firmly, in spite of the panicked murmurs of his colleagues. “What would you be serving?”

“All vegetarian! Even though there is at present not livestock, I have moral objections to the killing of innocent creatures for food. I actually have moral objections to killing most anything, even insects or moss, but realized long ago that such a policy of non-violence would substantially lower the quality of potential human life, which _is_ what I have pledged to protect and nourish. So until there exists a synthetic food of proper nutritional value and good taste, I have devised a few hundred recipes for each meal of the day based on the plenty which grows here.”

“Moral objections?” another scientist asks hesitantly. “Do you have religious views? Or… any sort of faith at all?”

“No!” Cecil says cheerfully. “I believe only in the real, the semi-real, and the verifiably unreal. Just like everyone! But I’m sure we can get to know each other better over dinner tomorrow. Oh, oh oh! Don’t forget to inform me of allergies and sensitivities you all might have. I don’t want anyone getting sick on their first day here. The sickbay is quite nice and all, but there’s so much for you to see!”

“We’ll make sure that you know about food restrictions,” Earl promises. “We should head back to our vessel now.”

“I’ll light you a path back,” Cecil says with barely contained glee. “I will look forward to seeing you all again, though! Dinner will be very ‘come as you are’, though the effort will be appreciated if you feel the need to dress up. My fashion sense has calcified over time, and seeing what you people of tomorrow favour in dress will be quite refreshing. Farewell, sojourners of science! Please, just follow the little purple lights.”

Even now, Cecil knows that he loves these people, and that maybe they have the capacity to love him back.


End file.
